Se connecterThe night blankets Chicago in a cloak of mist and trembling neon, but here, on the thirty-fifth floor, nothing matters except the electricity crackling between us. The city moans below, its agitated streets like a wounded beast, but in this suite with walls of black marble and sheets of scarlet silk, there are no more laws, no more rules—just us, and the weight of what we have just accomplished.
The hammer rests on the coffee table, its mahogany handle gleaming
TaraThe question comes out, fragile, that of the girl I once was, seeking her queen-mother's blessing.She sets down her cup, stands, and comes to sit beside me. She takes my hand between hers, her fingers slender but strong, dotted with ancient rings."Piccola mia, since you were born, you have always aimed higher, further, more dangerous. You ran faster than your brothers, argued stronger than your father, defied the world with a composure that sometimes terrified me. Sarah…"She stops, and I feel her hand contract slightly on mine. Sarah. My twin. The other half of my soul, and yet my perfect opposite."How is Sarah?" I ask softly, feeling the familiar void, that phantom pain of being separated from a part of oneself.My mother sighs, a sound of velvet and regret."She is in France. In the Luberon, with her husbands. She paints. She cultivates her lavender. She writes me letters long as my arm about the color
TaraThe silence after the men's departure is dense, but of a different quality. The geopolitical tension has dissipated, giving way to another type of gravity, more intimate, inherited from mother to daughter. Mike and my father have gone to the smoking room—or what they call such, which no doubt resembles a miniature war room—to discuss "operational details." A pretext. They need to confront each other, to measure each other without the civilizing filter of our presence.My mother gestures to me with an elegant tilt of her chin."Come, piccola. Let them play with their cigars and their maps. We have things to say to each other."We withdraw into the most spacious guest room, the one overlooking the lake. She has already had a fine porcelain tea service set out, first-flush Darjeeling that perfumes the room. She sits on the sofa, slips off her pumps with an almost imperceptible sigh of relief, and looks at me."So," she says, pouring t
TaraThen comes my father. Auracio "La Morte" Ferrari. The man moves with a calculated slowness, a presence that absorbs all the oxygen around him. His suit is perfect, but one senses the contained raw power. His eyes, a metallic gray, find mine first. A glimmer of real affection, immediately masked by a predator's vigilance. Then they turn to Mike. And there, the silence that settles is of a different quality. It is not just the face-off of two alpha predators. It is the meeting of the heirs of an ancient hatred, tinged with the residual disgust of sometimes having to collaborate, and the absolute mistrust of seeing one's blood mixed with that of the enemy.Mike does not lower his eyes. He holds my father's gaze, without aggressive defiance, but with the cold assurance of one who knows he holds something precious to the other.It is my mother who breaks the spell, with her melodious and precise voice, glacially polite."Tara, cara. You look
TaraHis lips leave mine, leaving behind the taste of challenge and whisky. A pact sealed in the darkness. He says nothing else, merely casting a last meaningful look at me before returning to the bed, his body moving with the silent grace of a great predator. The truce is over. A new front has just opened.I remain by the window for a moment, the sheet clutched to my chest, still feeling the warmth of his hands on my shoulders. Make war on me. For the first time, the battle has a name, an objective beyond survival or domination. It is terrifying. It is exhilarating.The next two days are an exercise in exquisite tension. Mike is… attentive. Not tender, not gentle—those words do not exist in his lexicon. But he is present, in a sharpened way. He observes my preparations for my parents' arrival with the concentrated interest he would give to a maneuver on a chessboard. He senses this is not just a social visit. It is an incursion onto h
TARAThe whisky flows down my throat, a liquid fire that contrasts with the moist torpor of my body. Beside me, Mike breathes deeply, calmly. His arm, heavy and possessive, is thrown over my hips, his hand on my belly as if to mark his hold even in sleep.The war continues tomorrow.His words resonate in the silence, long after the echo of our moans has faded. A truce. That is all. A suspension of hostilities, a pillaging of bodies. As intense, as devastating as it may be.I close my eyes, but it is not sleep that comes. It is a nagging thought, now familiar, that digs its furrow behind my aching forehead.When?When will he fall in love with me?The question is absurd. Ridiculous. Weak. In the world he has built, love is a fault line, a vulnerability. A luxury too expensive to afford. He needs loyalty, desire, obedience. He needs territory. And I am, apparently, a territory he loves to conquer. Again and again.We get along we
MIKEI have no intention of stopping.Her command still echoes in the damp air between us—wage war on me—and something primitive, definitive, solidifies in my chest. It's no longer a game. It's a claim. A conquest. The sweat on her skin gleams like oil under the low light, and she smells of jasmine, tobacco, and us, that musky, wild aroma we make together.My hips lower. I sheathe myself in a single thrust, so deep and complete our bones seem to clash. Her breath is torn away, her cry drowns in our kiss. She wraps herself around me, her legs encircling my waist like serpents, her heels burying into my lower back, pulling me deeper, demanding more.I start to move.It's not a rhythm, not at first. It's a punishment. An assault. I take her while pinning her to the mattress, each thrust is a blow struck, each withdrawal a threat. The head of my cock grinds against the most sensitive spot inside her, aiming with cruel precision. Her b
TaraThe silence that follows is not a void, but a tangible presence, saturated with the scent of our intertwined bodies, of the sweat drying on our skin, of the muffled echo of our breaths slowly calming. He remains inside me, a rooted weight, a backbone to my devastated universe. I
TaraThe sky is heavy, steel-colored, and the city rumbles with distant sirens. From the balcony, the view is magnificent and menacing. The towers look like knives pointed at the sky. Perfect setting for a king… or a queen.I wake up alone.The spot beside me is empty, cold. Mike already left the r
TaraTwo days of festivities had been enough to remind me why I hate overly perfect families. Forced laughter, honeyed conversations, glances that judge behind polite smiles. I played my role, that of the loving, beautiful, docile wife, but every minute rang false. I knew Mike was seething inside.
TaraHe doesn't listen; he grabs both my arms and holds them above my head; looking me straight in the eyes, he brutally penetrates me.— Miiiiiike…He buries himself deeper. Tears come to my eyes. He just tore me in two. He starts pounding me violently; I close my eyes and let him. He finally rele







